


Suspend Your Disbelief in Miracles

by iamocelost



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen, Hockey, Mild torture, of course Ocelot likes hockey, pre-TPP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:42:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6883885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamocelost/pseuds/iamocelost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Ocelot's many jobs while waiting for V to come to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suspend Your Disbelief in Miracles

February 22, 1980

 

“Eleven seconds, you've got ten seconds, the countdown going on right now! Morrow, up to Silk. Five seconds left in the game. Do you believe in miracles?! YES!!!”

The television was drowned out by the roar of bar patrons slamming bottles down on tables to scream in victory, boisterous men and a few women slapping each other on the back and sloshing beer everywhere.

Eva gave Ocelot a wry grin. “Sorry, Adam,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the din, “looks like your team lost.” 

Ocelot shrugged, taking another sip from his whiskey. “Had to happen sometime,” he said philosophically.

When Eva proposed they meet face-to-face, she hadn’t questioned Ocelot’s reasons for insisting it had to be New York. If anything, the influx of people for the Winter Games would hide the two of them well. When he had proposed a bar that catered to hockey fans, Eva had scoffed, but Ocelot just said he was interested in the game. After all, the Russian national team was the best in the world. 

But now, with all the excitement around them, it had worked out for the best; no one would be paying any attention to the couple in the corner. 

“So he’s fine?” Ocelot asked for the fourth time. 

Eva rolled her eyes at him. “How many times do I have to say it? He’s in a coma, but he’s stable. No change whatsoever.” 

“And you’ve seen him with your own two eyes?” Ocelot should have been embarrassed by how hungry he was for news, but when it came to John, he was shameless.

“I was just there two weeks ago,” Eva said, waving her hand dismissively, “and I’m going back in a month. He’s a snug as a bug in a rug.”

Ocelot frowned. “So he could be stepped on at any moment without anyone realizing he’s there?” 

Eva sidestepped his remark entirely. “How are things going with Miller?” she asked, leaning forward on the table so her breasts pushed up a little.

Ocelot felt his frown deepen even as his gaze dipped a little before returning to her face. He knew the game: get the subject distracted so he said more than he meant to without realizing what he’d said. “I’m pretty sure the man is completely unhinged.”

“But otherwise?” She was twirling her hair now. 

Ocelot sighed; he had never quite understood why he had ended up being the one to liaise with Miller instead of Eva. Not that it would have been a good idea anyway, he thought. They would have spent all their time trying to out-fuck each other. Pushing that particular image from his mind, he said, “Now that Rhodesia doesn’t exist anymore, he’s been in Central America, trying to pick up some of his old MSF staff.”

“Another private forces company?” The fingers stopped twirling and Eva sat up a little.

Ocelot gestured dismissively with his glass. “He’s got this idea that Cipher is in Afghanistan, wants to build a PF to give himself an excuse to be snooping around.”

“And is Cipher in Afghanistan?”

Ocelot hesitated. “Miller’s...got some interesting intel.” That was all he was willing to commit to. At least to Eva. “In any case, it won’t be hard to get the GRU to station me in Afghanistan for a while, so if Miller works the Afghan forces, we’ll have both sides covered. We’ll hear anything worth hearing.”

Eva looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Well, at the very least, if Miller builds another one of those ocean bases he’s so fond of, John will have somewhere to go when he wakes.” But her voice was a little chilled, and Ocelot knew that she was thinking someone to go to. Ah yes, that was why Eva couldn’t be the one to work with Miller; anything they did with or to each other would ultimately be about who could do John better. 

Ocelot pinched the bridge of his nose; he was tired and had a long night ahead of him still. “Look,” he said, letting his irritation show a little, “is there anything else?”

Eva blinked at him innocently. “Was it something I said?”

“I just need to get back to work.” He turned up his glass to finish the contents.

Eva smiled like the cat with the canary. “So it wasn’t just me that brought you to New York.”

“You know I don’t mix work with my hobbies,” he said, standing. “So if there’s nothing else…”

“You gonna pick up the tab?” She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs.

He pulled on his coat. “I’m sure if you tell those nice men at the bar that the mean old Russian you came in here with left you with the bill, you’ll find someone willing to take care of you.”

His rented car was waiting on the curb. It was five hours to Lake Placid.

+++++

A week earlier, Ocelot had been asked to meet with Ovechkin, the man who, ostensibly, he answered to in the GRU, though most everyone who reached that kind of lofty position knew that Major Ocelot was largely to be left to his own devices, that he answered to Higher Powers.

“It’s a delicate job,” Ovechkin had said, “and it will require a delicate hand.”

Ocelot tried not to look bored in front of his current commanding officer, but they both knew they reason he was in this office was because he was the best at “delicate.” He shifted his weight from his left leg to his right and didn’t say anything.

“We have reason to believe that some of our comrades may use the upcoming Olympic Games as an opportunity to denigrate the motherland in the eyes of the Capitalist dogs,” Ovechkin went on, “perhaps even try to curry some favor for protection in the West.”

“But you can’t just keep them here,” Ocelot said coolly, “because you have enough Olympic scandal on your hands already.”

Ovechkin grimaced. “Carter’s ultimatum is making things...difficult. In any case, several members of the hockey team have expressed interest in joining the North American hockey league in the past, You will go to New York and should anything,” Ovechkin paused to search for an appropriate word, “unexpected happen with the hockey team, I’d like you to pay a visit. Just a little reminder of who they are representing.”

“And who should I visit?”

“I leave that up to your discretion, but no one else should know that you were there.”

Ocelot frowned. “They have KGB with them, right? Even the coach is KGB. What’s the GRU’s angle here?”

Ovechkin had a ghost of a smile. “Just a little reminder that someone other than KGB is watching.”

+++++

Ocelot reflected on this conversation during his long drive. On the one hand, he had lost interest in the never-ending negotiations for power and position that in some ways defined the Soviet upper echelons, and part of him seriously suspected that Ovechkin just wanted to send a message that the GRU was not to be counted out. On the other hand, the fact that he could not immediately pin down Ovechkin’s aims had him worried that there was some piece of intel he was missing. Perhaps he would spend a little more time in the homeland before telling Ovechkin he was going to Afghanistan, just to be sure of the lay of the land.

There was snow, lots of it, he knew, but he didn’t see much except the highway in front of him. He turned on the radio for a little while, but turned it off again with a snarl when that damn pina colada song came on. An hour later, he turned it on again, searching for a sports news station that would undoubtedly still be talking about the upset. He need to figure out who exactly he would be visiting tonight. And as he listened to the announcers discuss the game, he couldn’t help but feel that if Ovechkin wanted to send a message to the KGB, he would be pleased: it seemed like the one person who could be held responsible was Coach Viktor Tikhonov, who made possibly the worst mistake of his life when he pulled Tretiak out of goal. 

Of course, to these Western hockey critics, the move was incomprehensible. The fact that Tikhonov had come up in Dynamo Moscow and Tretiak had been CSKA Moscow was meaningless, the same to them as the Devils and the Red Wings -- just two teams. Years ago, when Ocelot had tried to explain the political repercussions of these things to John -- that Dynamo was KGB and CSKA was Red Army -- the older man had shook his head in disgust. “Can’t even let kids play a game,” he had muttered. 

“And teaching children to give their loyalty to the highest bidder like the American sports system does is so much better,” Ocelot had replied, rolling his eyes.

They’d had the East-West debate so many times it had become a joke. They both knew they only cared about the one thing. 

Ocelot arrived at the Olympic Village shortly after midnight. Security was lax, but he still took a moment to plan the best way to get to Tikhonov’s room, especially given the KGB bodyguards he had that doubled as his staff. It looked like Tikhonov’s legendary temper would work in Ocelot’s favor; if the furtive glance an assistant coach threw at the door to Tikhonov’s room was any indication, no one wanted to cross paths with him tonight. 

So Ocelot just let himself in the bathroom window and strode into the main room of the suite where Tikhonov was sitting with a bottle of vodka well on its way to empty. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Tikhonov didn’t seem terribly flustered by his appearance. “Who the fuck are you?” he spat in Russian, not moving an inch. 

Ocelot moved without hesitation and in a moment he had Tikhonov bound to the chair. The coach only looked confused. As Ocelot stepped back from his handiwork, he said, “I’m Major Ocelot. From GRU.”

That made Tikhonov’s face go pale, and he seemed to suddenly realize his wrists were bound to the arms of the chair. His tone didn’t change however. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? This building is full of KGB.”

“That may be,” said Ocelot, pulling out a knife, “but I don’t think any of them are interested in facing your wrath at the moment. If you really want to call for them, be my guest. But you’ll be dead before they get here.” He patted Tikhonov’s cheek with the flat of the blade to emphasize his point.

Tikhonov instead swallowed. “What do you want?” he asked hoarsely.

Ocelot leaned against the wall across from his subject. “You of all people should understand what was riding on this game. And you of all people should understand why, when something goes this wrong in such a public way, people may have concerns about those responsible, about their motivations and their loyalty. So I’m here to find out why you pulled Tretiak, and I’ll be here until I think I have the truth.”

“You think I deliberately sabotaged us?” Tikhonov sputtered. 

Ocelot raised an eyebrow. “I said no such thing, but it’s interesting that you’d bring it up.”

Tikhonov glowered. “I pulled Tretiak because he had let in two goals. Two goals. From those imbeciles.” Tikhonov snorted. “Maybe it should be him tied to a chair.”

Ocelot strode forward and punched Tikhonov, hard in the gut. The man doubled over as much as he could, groaning. It was important to not leave too many marks, meaning Ocelot was somewhat limited in what he could do, though he was thinking that a black eye might not be amiss, given how much Tikhonov had drank. So he pulled Tikhonov’s head up by the hair and punched him in the face. “The subject tried to turn suspicion away from himself by pointing his finger at a comrade, and a comrade under his command at that,” Ocelot said quietly. “Very concerning behavior.” When he let go of his hair, Tikhonov slumped forward, and Ocelot squatted on the floor in front of his chair to look up into the coach’s downturned face. There was no trace of blood, he noticed with satisfaction, but there would be a hell of a shiner. “Why did you pull Tretiak?”

Tikhonov was panting a little and took a while to answer. “Tretiak had let in two goals,” he said, meeting Ocelot’s eyes. “I thought Myshkin could do better.”

Ocelot stood and pulled Tikhonov’s head up by the hair again. The coach flinched, expecting to be hit, but Ocelot just looked at him, impassively. “What made you think Myshkin could do better?”

Tikhonov scoffed, even in his prone position. “Everyone is always Tretiak this, Tretiak that. Myshkin is just as good.”

Ocelot snorted and dropped Tikhonov’s head. “I’m pretty sure most everyone disagrees with you.”

“No one knows that team like I do,” Tikhonov asserted, glaring a little. 

“So if Tretiak really is the one who should be tied to this chair, you’ve been remiss in your duties.”

Tikhonov’s bravado dissipated as he realized his mistake. His jaw clenched and he said nothing further. That was fine with Ocelot. He picked up the forgotten bottle as he stood and leaned against the wall again, taking a drink without his eyes leaving Tikhonov’s. He let the minutes stretch, occasionally shifting a little, but mostly just watching. 

Tikhonov had started to sweat before Ocelot asked again. “Why did you pull Tretiak?”

“I don't know what else I can tell you,” Tikhonov said with a hint of pleading in his voice. “He'd let in two goals. I didn't know what else to do. I thought it was the right decision. I'm not sure it was the wrong one.”

“Again, most everyone would disagree.”

“And what the fuck do they know?” Tikhonov growled, finding his temper again. “What the fuck do any of them know about hockey?”

“Oh Viktor,” said Ocelot, affecting a patronizing tone, “you should know by now that our bosses, they expect to not have to know, because the results should be clear as day.”

Tikhonov wasn't through with his anger. “And what the fuck do you know?!”

Ocelot slapped him for that, but it was really just for show; he already had all the information he needed. When Tikhonov whipped his head back around to face him, Ocelot smiled at him. “I think you understand that, if things do not go as they are expected, you will be seeing me again.” Tikhonov just glared back. 

Ocelot stepped behind the chair to put Tikhonov in an efficient choke hold and within seconds the man was unconscious. He then cut the bonds, putting the leftover bits of rope in his pocket, stripped Tikhonov done to his underwear, and placed him under the covers in his bed. If he was a little hard to wake in the morning, one look at the empty bottle would be enough to allay any suspicions. 

Zero had once asked Ocelot if he ever felt any dissonance with his Soviet-American identity. Of course, he had framed the question by prattling on about all the things about Americans that he couldn't seem to get used to, but that was Zero’s way. Ocelot had responded that he found both countries equally ridiculous. Zero had scoffed, probably assuming it was just Ocelot’s young rebel persona talking, but it was actually as genuine an answer as he could give. He thought of all those Americans who would feel like there had been divine intervention on the ice that night, the hand of God reaching to down spread his blessings on the American Dream. Even those Westerns that he loved, he could see how ridiculous they were, but he suspended his disbelief and let himself get carried away because he wanted to.

Standing there, looking down on an unconscious man who had arguably just had the worst day of his life, who would wake up with a black eye and a hangover and the knowledge that his entire career and perhaps his life hinged on his next game, Ocelot acknowledged how ridiculous it was that he had traveled all the way around the world to threaten a man for what boiled down to intra-office rivalry. But he suspended his disbelief and, as he exited the window and returned to his car, he felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I’m playing with history, Kojima-style.
> 
> In case you didn’t catch on, this is a story about the 1980 Lake Placid Winter Olympics in which the underdog U.S. men’s hockey team upset the Soviet powerhouse in the Miracle on Ice. It is the kind of thing that Disney makes movies about (and they did. Twice.).
> 
> If you’re interested in hockey history, the Soviet Union in the 1970s-1990s, or all the weird ways the Cold War played out, you should check out the documentary _Red Army_.
> 
> Several of the Soviet players were active duty military, so the GRU having some kind of interest here would make sense.
> 
> Slava Fetisov (who was on the Russian national team in 1980) was drafted into the NHL in 1978 and again in 1983, but the Soviet government didn’t allow him to play in North America until 1989, when he and seven other Russians entered the NHL, though they continued to play on the Russian national team (and many of them sent huge portions of their salaries to the Soviet government).
> 
> Viktor Tikhonov was a notorious asshole who controlled every aspect of his players’ lives. They spent eleven months out of the year in training camps, and only got to see their families maybe once a month.
> 
> Alex Ovechkin in a current hockey player and wasn’t alive when this story takes place, but most of the Russian names I know are the names of hockey players.
> 
> iamocelost.tumblr.com


End file.
